_To Happiness._

Say, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell? Desir'd of all, and sought through every scene, In pomp of courts, and in the rural green, Life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell. Thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few, We seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go; Tir'd of the chace, man ceases to pursue, And sighing, says, thou dwellest not below. Does he not after fairy shadows run? Follows he not some wild illusive dream, Like children who would catch the radiant sun, Grasp at its image in the glittering stream? If right he sought, then man would meet success, For surely "Virtue leads to happiness."

MOSCHUS.

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SONNET IX.

Mark'st thou yon streamlet in its onward course? Mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats? Lightly it drifts along, and well denotes The light impression on the youthful breast, Which, in life's summer, transiently imprest, Glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force: But o'er the fading year, when winter reigns, Chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd, And on its bosom, where of late it play'd, Frolic and light the reed infix'd remains. Thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar, Freezes the genial flow of mental power, The mind, tenacious of its gather'd store, Detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal hour.

MOSCHUS.

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SONNET X.